


Folie à deux

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Bruce Wayne is Hannibal Lecter, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce has his own tragic backstory AND Hannibal's, Cannibalism, Clark Kent is Will Graham, Crossover, Dark Batfamily (DCU), Hallucinations, Hannibal - Freeform, Investigations, M/M, Murder, Secret Identity, The Gotham Ripper, aka the rich, but only the rude, encephalitis, i don't care, so get ready, therapy for the purposes of investigative journalism, tumblr fic ideas, yes i know this is ooc for batman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27111421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Folie à deux -- a madness shared by two.Clark Kent, turned onto the Gotham Ripper's tail, finds himself investigating an impossible story with the help of renowned, charming ex-psychiatrist Bruce Wayne.With his assistance, he might just see the face of Gotham's most elusive serial killer, who rips justice from the very bodies of the city's elite and powerful -- whose darkness seems more alluring, even righteous, to Clark, the closer they dance.From tumblr: a dark superbat rewrite of the TV show "Hannibal."
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 24
Kudos: 137





	1. Aperitif

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're thinking -- Batman doesn't kill people! You're absolutely right. But Batman doesn't exist in this story. And the story I'm about to attempt is definitely ooc -- have you seen Hannibal? It's unrepentantly bloody and righteous. 
> 
> And revenge -- good old-fashioned, biblical revenge, is, arguably, a theme in the Batman universe already. So what if we inverted Bruce's moral compass, and, by proxy, those of his children? And what if we met a different Clark, lonely, curious, twisted by the pure perception of his empathy, simply seeking out purchase in a world that seems to spiral from his grip? 
> 
> What if they found each other?

Clark was dropped unceremoniously by the taxi a block and a half from Gotham PD. Lugging his laptop bag over his shoulder, he passed a few crumpled bills through the window, giving the cabbie a dirty look. 

It was grey and raining, which seemed like Gotham’s charming default state. Wind blustered past him, tugging at the light jacket he’d worn. The weather was offensive and disheartening, Gotham to its core as he pushed through the rain toward the station. 

The inside of the precinct smelled like cigarettes and stale coffee. Clark ran a halfhearted hand through his hair, trying to dislodge as much water as he could before he reached the information desk, leaving sodden footprints on the grey carpet. 

“Yes?” the woman at the desk asked, not looking up from her monitor. Her expression was pinched, left hand tapping on a visitor’s log as she searched for something on the computer screen. 

“Good morning, Ma’am, I’m, uhh--” Clark reached into his pocket, pulling out his press credentials. “Clark Kent, here to see Commissioner--uh, Gordon?”

The long-suffering woman -- _Ramirez,_ according to her faded nametag-- finally looked up. She gave him a quick once-over, ignoring the press credentials entirely. Her lip curling, she finally reached for her radio. 

“Barachy,” she said into the receiver, “Visitor for Gordon. He in yet?”

“ _Y_ _eah, he ain’t been out yet,”_ came the response from the speaker on her shoulder, tinged with humor. _“Not that I seen, at least.”_

Ramirez shook her head, distantly fond, and gestured toward the far wall behind the desk with her chin. 

“In through there, third door on the right,” she said, then paused, looking reluctantly thoughtful. “You here for a job interview?”

Clark felt color rise in his cheeks, and shook his head. “No, Ma’am.” 

“Grab the poor man some coffee before you head in,” she said, like she hadn’t heard him. “Make a good impression.” 

He nodded, as she turned back to her computer, heading toward the back wall. Just to his left, there was a dirty coffee pot and a few chipped mugs tucked into a small alcove. 

Clark hesitated, looking around for sugar or cream, and poured coffee into a single mug, praying the Commissioner took it black. Coffee in hand, he followed Ramirez’s directions and headed down the hall, pausing in front of the third door on the right. 

Lois’ voice came to him, unbidden as usual: _Get there early, or you’ll be fighting with a bunch of detectives for ten seconds of his time. Yes, that means_ early _Kent--”_

Clark checked his watch. It was just barely 7 AM. He winced, switching the coffee mug to his other hand, and knocked firmly on the door. 

“ _Mmmph,_ ” someone, presumably Gordon, grunted. A moment later, something crashed to the floor, followed by hurried shuffling noises. “Come--come in!”

Clark pushed the door open carefully, careful not to wobble the mug. Gordon was wiry, moustached and a little greyer than his photos, seated with a pile of papers on the desk in front of him. 

For a moment, he lost himself in the dark circles, mussed hair, and a shirt so rumpled, watching the story of the other man’s exhaustion play out before his eyes. He’d been up late last night, slept in the chair he was sitting on, desperate not to go home to an unhappy wife and distant children when--

Beady eyes met his, narrowed in suspicion, pulling him from his analysis. 

“Can I help you?”

“Good morning, Commissioner,” Clark said, waving with the hand not holding the mug, “My name is Clark K--”

“Coffee,” Gordon mumbled, scenting the air like a bloodhound. His eyes landed on the mug in Clark’s hand. There was a line of ink on his cheekbone, presumably from the newspaper he’d been sleeping on. “Please.”

Clark passed the mug over, closing the door. He sat in the only other chair in the cramped office, a mustard wingback that had clearly seen better days. The room itself, covered in cork boards, sheets of paper, and photographs, probably hadn’t. 

The commissioner had his lips pressed to the mug, sucking down greedy mouthfuls of the steaming coffee. Clark watched in amazement as he drained the mug, pressing fingers to his temples. 

“Who are you?” Gordon asked after a moment of silence, wincing. “Park Kent?” 

“Clark Kent, sir,” he corrected. “Lois Lane, my editor, sent me. From the Daily Planet?”

“Lane. Hell of a woman.” Gordon paused, squinting at Clark. “Metropolis, right?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hell of a woman,” Gordon repeated, looking mildly perturbed. Blinking, he focused back on Clark, clearly making an effort to stay cogent. “Guess she’s cashing in that favor, huh?”

“I’m here about the Ripper murder,” Clark said. Gordon winced again. 

“‘Course you are,” he said, shaking his head. His hands drifted to the pile of papers on his desk. After a few seconds of sorting, he pulled out a slim plastic folder. “If Lois sent you, you know a body dropped last night. You want in.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, I know there’s a new cycle,” Clark said, grabbing his notepad from his laptop bag. He scribbled the date and time down, underlining them. “I’d like to speak with the detective in charge of the case, maybe see the scene, if that’s okay?”

“Don’t have one,” Gordon said, sighing. He glanced at the empty coffee mug. “Keep quitting, or disappearing. Last one lasted six weeks. Really fucked the patrol boys who bet five and half.”

“Surely, with the high profile victims, there would be a greater sense of urgency--”

“Oh, hell, the mayor’s riding my ass like it’s a freshly broken bull,” Gordon interrupted, mustache twitching in displeasure. “Everyone with a black AmEx calls me after each one, wondering if they’re next,” he said, anger slipping into his tone. “whereas we can’t even provide a pattern, or a likely victim profile, beyond _stupidly rich,_ because no one’s been able to work this damn thing for more than a few days.” 

Clark took in the bitterness hiding under his words, the resentment turned inward, blaming himself, others, the derision for the rich wasting time on useless calls, and nodded. “The last cycle of bodies was...two years ago?” 

Gordon paled, a barely-noticeable shift under his usual pallor. “They’re...distinctive scenes. I thought maybe we’d seen the last of them.”

“I want to help you catch him,” Clark said, firmly. He clasped his hands together. “I’m good at investigating, Commissioner.” 

“You’re a civilian,” Gordon said, frowning, “And not even mine, at that.”

“You owe Lois Lane a _favor_ ,” Clark said, like that meant something. By the expression on the other man’s face, it did. “I won’t get in your way. I promise. Think of this as just…” he trailed off, “...additional manpower.” 

Gordon hesitated, torn, then tossed the folder at him. 

“Scene’s still active if you wanna take a look at it. Over on Williamson street.” He shook his head, looking exhausted. “I was there all night. Someone can take you over. I gotta get ready for the calls.”

Clark opened his mouth to thank the commissioner, surprised, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door, polite and concise. 

Gordon groaned, then grumbled something that almost sounded like _enter,_ head back in his hands. 

The door swung inward, nearly clipping Clark’s knee. 

“Jim?” a man said, holding the door open with his elbow. Balanced in his hands were two cups from _Juliet’s,_ held carefully away from a dark, pressed suit coat and slacks. “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t know you had company--”

“Coffee,” Gordon said, standing immediately. The man -- dark-haired, tall and lean, wearing a three piece suit at 7AM on a Monday like he’d been born into it -- strode into the room, depositing the cups on the desk. 

“I got you a triple shot, after I heard the news,” the man said, grinning as the commissioner grabbed the cup and sat back down, inhaling its contents. He glanced at Clark, his face a familiar profile under the fluorescents, then held out a hand. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, turning grey-blue eyes and a dazzling flash of white teeth on him like a searchlight. “Bruce Wayne.”

“C-clark,” he said, momentarily starstruck. “I’m a reporter with the Daily, uh, Planet.” 

Wayne shook his hand, gripping it without commenting on how clammy it was. “Nice to meet you,” he said sincerely, turning back to Gordon, “Am I interrupting an interview? I thought you didn’t talk to the press unless you had to.”

Clark bristled, sitting back down. Wayne remained standing, the curve of his legs at eye-level as he spoke to Gordon. He was relaxed into a simple lean, his graceful, assured posture something Clark couldn’t help but envy. 

“I don’t,” Gordon said, around a mouthful of espresso. “He’s helping with the Ripper murders. Doing some investigative work until we can get someone on the case lead again.” 

“Fascinating,” Wayne said, like it genuinely was, turning back to Clark with a sharp smile. “I help Jim occasionally with profiling, though nothing as exciting as the Ripper, recently.” 

Gordon snorted. “Dr. Wayne is being modest. His psychological profiles have been...more than useful in several high profile arrests.”

“All for the good of Gotham,” Wayne said, his smile dampening to something more ingenuine. Clark caught a glimpse of something in his eyes, a sudden layered emotion, quickly tucked back into where it’d leaked out from. “If there’s any way I can help, Mr. Kent, I’d be honored.” 

“I--uh,” Clark stood, awkward. “I wasn’t aware you knew who I was, Dr. Wayne.”

“I follow the Planet’s coverage,” he said, waving a hand at the window, and the Gotham skyline beyond. “The perils of owning its competitor, I’m afraid. You had a good piece on the sewer system revamp last year, yes?” 

Clark nodded. “Right. I...uh--Thank you, Dr. Wayne.”

“Please,” Wayne said, grinning good-naturedly. “Call me Bruce. I’m basically retired, now.” 

_Semi-retired, renowned psychiatrist, CEO and businessman, not to mention his charitable contributions--reformed playboy, heir, family man--_

Clark lost himself again, in between blinks, struggling to dig past the veneer that hung around Wayne. It was like a magazine article had come to life, walked into Gordon’s office, and given the most perfect impression of a suave, charming philanthropist. 

It felt _off._

Gordon, who’d unceremoniously pried the second cup of espresso open in the meantime, butted in before he could further embarrass himself. 

“Kid needs to see the scene on Williamson,” the commissioner grunted, reclining back into his seat. “Maybe a few of the older spots, too. Could help to have your background and _expertise_.” 

“You mean my social network,” Bruce said, winking obscenely. Clark felt his mouth go dry. “The things I do for the GCPD,” he lamented, putting a hand over his heart. 

“We don’t pay you,” Gordon said, over the rim of the espresso cup. “Hell if I know why you keep showing up.” 

“The tax write-off, of course,” Bruce said, deadpan, eyes flashing. Gordon snorted, either ignorant of the tension suddenly filling the room, or uncaring. “How else could I repay Gotham for its kindness?”

The other man’s gaze found Clark’s, burning over Gordon’s head. Clark swallowed, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

The intensity of the other man was almost too much, soaking into his senses, cloying, until all he could do was duck his head and pray Bruce’s attention would cease without---

Like the sun clearing the clouds, Bruce let out a tinkling laugh, the tension disappearing from the room. 

“I’ve got the whole week open, as it stands. If it’s no trouble to you, Mr. Kent…” he tilted his head, looking at Clark curiously. “I do have a car outside.”

“Yes, I--that would be great,” Clark stammered, grabbing the folder Gordon had thrown at him and stuffing it into his bag. “Thank you for the meeting, Commissioner. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Don’t die,” Gordon said, glib, waving to them from his desk-paper-mountain. “I don’t need Lois Lane calling me, either.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

Bruce held the door open, grinning at Clark. Up close, his suit was a deep cobalt, overlaid in faint gold plaid. It was utterly ridiculous, and, somehow, perfect on the man. 

“Shall we?”

Clark nodded. 

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Wayne-- _Bruce’s_ car was parked on a side street near the west entrance to the precinct. They battled the intermittent rain together, Clark following the billionaire’s lead to the corner. 

“Sorry it isn’t something flashier,” Bruce said, clicking a key fob once. Clark startled as a minivan across the street beeped, the doors sliding open. “I had to drop the kids at school this morning, and they don’t all fit in the Ferrari.” 

“Right,” Clark said, bemused. He shifted his bag over and climbed into the passenger seat. Bruce closed his door, sliding into the opposite seat. 

An awkward moment stretched between them, heightened by the near-silence of the van’s engine. Clark knew, without having much expertise on minivans, that this one was brand new, outfitted with every add-on known to God, and probably safer than any car he’d ever driven in. 

“I, uh, appreciate you taking me to the scene,” he said, keeping his gaze on the floor mats. Respectful. Not a threat. “I know Gordon might have signed you on, but it’s really no trouble if you need to, uh, go home--”

“Nonsense,” Bruce smiled at him, turning in his seat. “Hey, Kent.” 

Clark looked up. This close, his eyes were a brilliant blue-grey, catching the tint of the sky behind him. Clark’s eyes followed along the tight curve of his jaw, the impossibly sharp cheekbones, the scattered grey at his temples, the plush lips, and felt his own cheeks heat, dropping his gaze again. 

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Bruce continued, reassuring, his hands curling around the steering wheel “Like I said--I’m basically retired. The kids are at school all day. If I can do Jim a favor, I will.”

“How do you know the commissioner?” Clark blurted out. “Sorry. I mean, you don’t have to tell me. It just seems like you’re...close.” 

Bruce’s lips twitched. “It’s fine, Kent. I don’t mind.”

“Clark, please.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Bruce pulled out of the parking spot, directing them onto the main street. “His daughter is sweet on my eldest son...or vice versa. I can’t remember anymore. Crazy about each other, though.”

“So you’re...what? Future fathers-in-law?” 

Bruce smirked, turning the wheel with graceful, long fingers. “Exactly.”

“I didn’t know you worked with the GCPD in a professional capacity.” Clark ventured, wishing for his notebook, still stowed away in his sopping bag. 

“I don’t particularly often,” Bruce said, eyes flicking off the road to pin him in his seat. Clark blushed again. “Just when they’re stuck. Or when they can’t find a consultant with profiling experience.” 

“Because they keep going crazy, you mean.” Clark said, unthinking. Bruce winced delicately. “I’m so sorry, I...didn’t mean to insinuate anything.” 

“No, I’ve heard it all before.” the other man said, smiling briefly. “Tough town to be a psychiatrist in, that’s for sure. It drew me in anyway.” 

“These profiles…” Clark trailed off, wondering how to word the question half-percolated in his brain. “They must scare you a little.” 

The tiny crack in his suave, unflinching persona widened, ever so slightly. Clark could see the moment it parted, revealing the same expression he’d only caught the tail-end of before -- a kind of dark intensity that belied everything in his demeanor.

“I’ve seen much worse.”

And that was that.

* * *

Williamson street was still blocked off when they arrived, pulling into a nearby parking lot. Without asking, Wayne produced two umbrellas from the backseat, handing one to Clark. He nodded in thanks, opening it against the bitter rain. 

“That’s Santiago over there,” Bruce said, suddenly at his side, matching umbrella in hand. “I’ll go talk to her, see if she’ll let us in near the body.”

Clark frowned. “It isn’t at the morgue yet?”

“I believe there were...obstacles to its immediate removal,” Bruce said carefully. “Will you be alright here for a moment?”

A hand brushed the small of his black, gone as soon as it came. Clark nodded, embarrassed by the thrill of pleasure that fled down his spine. “Of course.”

He watched as the billionaire slid under the yellow crime scene tape, waving at a woman near the first evidence marker. A spirited discussion followed, concluded with a similarly-spirited shoving match. They spoke for a few more seconds, and then Bruce gestured for him to follow. 

Clark ducked under the tape, feeling the wrongness of the motion in every cell of his body. Reporters weren’t allowed past the line -- _ever._ But he wasn’t really a reporter now, was he? 

“Santiago, this is the boy genius,” Bruce said, smiling wide as Clark joined him. “Clark, this is Santiago, reigning queen of the GCPD bowling league.” 

“Pleasure,” Clark said, not offering a hand. Santiago nodded at him, not offering one either. “Am I able to take photographs?”

Santiago immediately looked pained. Bruce smiled again, catching her shoulder in a casual grip. 

“Just a few for Gordon’s records,” the billionaire said, hushed, “If he leaks them, I’ll wipe them off the internet myself.” 

_No empty threat,_ Clark thought, bristling at the implication. Bruce, garnering a nod from the defeated patrolwoman, turned to him conspiratorially, sending him a wink over her shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said, nodding at a white tent a hundred yards past the tape. “We’re on for bowling next Thursday, right Santiago?”

“Eat shit, Wayne,” Santiago said, turning back to watch the line. The second she wasn’t looking, the expression dropped from Bruce’s face, flattening into a look of concern. 

“Sorry about that. I didn’t want anyone kicking up a fuss for you,” the billionaire said, shaking his umbrella as they walked under the outer tent. “Santiago’s a good cop. I’d appreciate if you didn’t write about her.” 

The implication, unsaid, twisted around the smile Clark was given, pacifyingly, like a token. He nodded, distracted by the scent of antiseptic cleaners. “Is this it?”

“It is.” Bruce said, measured. He glanced at Clark’s hands, then back to his face. “Are you ready?”

“I’m fine,” he said, pulling his camera from the bag on his shoulder. Bruce shook his head. “I used to work the metro beat.” 

“That wasn’t what I asked.” 

The soft, layered tone drew him up short. Clark flinched, then met those eyes again -- a shimmering grey in the relative darkness of the tent’s entryway. 

“I’m ready,” he said, squaring his shoulders. Bruce’s lips pursed, like he was a difficult child, only to be appeased by waiting. “I _am_.” 

With one final _look,_ the billionaire pushed the tent open, inviting him inside with a wave. Clark, still fuming, stepped through the plastic angrily, camera gripped tightly in one hand. 

“I told you, I’m not--”

The concept of speech left him entirely. Only the feeling of Bruce at his back, the small hand pressed there, kept him upright. His eyes followed the blood splatters across the floor, trailing into the roots of a blood soaked tree, embedded directly into the asphalt. 

Clark didn’t dare breathe. 

_Click._

He took another photograph, edging to the right. 

_Click,_ another shot of the pale feet threaded through the tree’s roots, knees hidden behind knots of wood. _Click,_ another detail -- the wet, sloughing skin of the body’s kneecaps, worn down by water exposure. 

_Click,_ lifeless hands bound to tree branches, exposing the chest. _Click,_ the blank cavity where organs had been, now teeming with brightly-colored lilies. _Click,_ the thin, green new branches of growth poking through the man’s eye sockets, turned sightless to the sky. 

_Click,_ the beauty of blood amongst cherry blossoms, red splattered against an aching, beautiful white. Hands turned up in supplication, threaded with leaves and petals. 

_A man twisted, finally swayed, into the bowels of a tree, punished with a flair of mythos and sickly-sweet lilies. His very own blood feeding its roots, its growth, its beauty, no matter where it was found--_

Clark trembled against the camera, but not out of fear. If Bruce noticed, he said nothing, standing silently at his side. 

He tipped his chin up in awe, blood pounding in his ears. 

_“_ It’s...beautiful.”

* * *

_"It’s beautiful.”_

Bruce’s fists clenched at the reporter’s worshiping tone, grateful they were hidden away in his pockets. For a moment, he could barely comprehend the words, his mind tripping over the phrase, again and again. 

_It’s beautiful,_ he’d said, eyes widened, beholding it. Seeing _him._

Shock colored his face, hidden from Clark’s gaze. A spark of want ripped through him. There was no revulsion on the reporter’s face -- no outrage, no horror, no nauseating pity -- just awe. Simple, honest awe. 

He couldn’t move if he’d wanted to. He was held on a thin gossamer chain, tied to the younger man in front of him, who knew nothing of the power he’d just revealed in open admission. 

_It’s beautiful._

Bruce closed his eyes, biting down on his lip until he drew blood.


	2. Amuse-Bouche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update! Sorry I'm so bad about WIPs (right now and in general) but I'll be trying harder soon!

_ He tipped his chin up in awe, blood pounding in his ears.  _

_ “It’s...beautiful.”  _

Clark waited for Bruce’s admonition, but it never came. He tore his gaze away from the twisted corpse, glancing at the other man. The billionaire was quiet, an expression flitting across his face, gone as soon as it came.

“Tell me what you see,” Bruce murmured, nodding toward the tree. His hands were folded, the curve of his spine straight and firm. His gaze was like fire, banked but still burning, still radiating heat. 

“I see...a tragedy.” Clark started, voice quivering. He dropped his camera to hang back around his neck. “A twisted ending that amuses him.”

“Him?”

“The Ripper,” Clark said, blinking. “Whoever he was, he deserved this. Binding him to the tree was a punishment.”

“Yet there seems to be beauty in the act, regardless.” Bruce murmured, somewhere next to him. “The lilies. The cherry blossoms. Someone took a lot of time to bring this here.”

Clark surveyed the blood-splattered branches, wrapped around the corpse’s arms and secured with thin zip ties. 

“A transformation,” he said, tilting his head. “The Ripper was elevating him.”

“Elevating?”

“The tree trunk, the arms,” Clark said, mind whirring. He turned to the billionaire. “Doesn’t it remind you of something?”

Bruce looked faintly amused, folding his arms. “Spit it out, boy wonder.”

“Daphne,” he said, triumphantly pulling the name out of his memories. “The nymph who fled Apollo.” 

“I didn’t know you were so well-versed in Greek mythology,” Bruce replied, raising a brow. “Daphne ran from Apollo’s advances and found solace in the laurel tree. Why not a woman, then?”

Clark turned back to the corpse, peering at the man’s face. “Do we have an ID on him yet?”

Bruce nodded. “Cal Roberts. Heir to the Vansen oil dynasty. We ran in the same circles, once upon a time.” 

“You knew him.”

“Vaguely,” Bruce said, “Our appetites were...somewhat disparate.”

“You mean his predilection for underaged girls,” Clark said, remembering now. Bruce winced. 

“Among other things.”

Clark fell silent, stepping around the cordon to examine the other side of the tree more closely. 

“If it weren’t for the precision of the scene...I’d almost wonder if that was related.”

“Angry pimp?” Bruce asked, following him. “Or a dad out for revenge?”

“No,” Clark shook his head, feeling dazed as he leaned in to examine the skin on Roberts’ knees. Well, what remained of it. “They wouldn’t have spent the time on this that  _ he  _ did. I mean, this is practically art--”

A crime tech behind him stifled a giggle, gesturing to a colleague. Clark felt his face burning, blood rushing to the surface as realized how he’d sounded. 

Bruce caught his gaze, shaking his head minutely.  _ Don’t worry about them,  _ it said,  _ it’s just you and I.  _

“What’s our next move?” he asked pleasantly, like they hadn’t been interrupted. “It’ll be a few days before forensics gets back, if they manage to pull anything.”

Clark snorted, remembering the success GCPD had had during the last sounder -- a resounding void of any and all evidence. “Well, I’d like to talk to the family, friends, colleagues, see if we can’t figure out where he was last seen.”

Bruce nodded toward the exit, holding open the plastic flap until Clark acquiesced. He followed him out into the bleak grey of Gotham, snagging their umbrellas on the way out. “I don’t know if I’d recommend that.”

Clark stopped, fiddling with his umbrella. “You wouldn’t?”

“Roberts is already dead. We have two more potential victims, and no way of discerning them before they’re dead, other than wealth.” 

“You want to go on the offensive,” Clark surmised. “Eke out the pattern instead of playing catch up.”

Bruce smiled, something genuine in the expression this time. “Seems like our only option, isn’t it?” 

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” Clark protested, opening his umbrella. Together, they headed back toward the minivan, ducking under the crime scene tape. 

“Fortunately for you,” Bruce said, mischievous as he unlocked the minivan, “I  _ do _ .”

“And where would that be?” Clark asked, climbing into the van and closing his umbrella. 

“The Gotham Philharmonic. Tonight.”

He groaned. “Please tell me it’s not opera.”

Bruce turned to him, lips upturned in innocence. “It’s not opera.”

“It’s opera, isn’t it.”

“Yep.”

* * *

Clark hadn’t even asked where they were going, a subconscious display of trust that burned in Bruce’s chest. Already, the other man was comfortable around him, humming to himself as he flipped through the photos he’d taken of Roberts. 

Bruce took the exit toward the Manor, wondering what Alfred would say when they turned up on the front steps, sopping from the rain and eager to catch a killer standing right in front of them. 

He glanced at Clark’s profile, still bent over the camera. The reporter had seen through his display instantly, like no one else had. He’d seen the art Bruce had painstakingly twisted into position and appreciated its realization. He’d seen the  _ justice  _ of pinning a predator into one of the oldest predation stories, and had looked  _ righteous.  _

He realized with a pang that he would do anything to see that expression on the other man’s face again. He imagined what it would look like covered in blood, the reporter standing over his own kill, righteous and just at Bruce’s side. 

There was a thread of darkness in Clark Kent. Already, he felt the urge to tug on it, to let it unravel and watch the other man grow. Realize. Become. 

With a thought, he reshuffled future plans, eyeing Clark’s measurements. 

_ The same size, give or take,  _ he thought, satisfied. 

**Author's Note:**

> I promise to keep updating -- and you should hold me to it! Let me know what you think! I have a ton of ideas for this fic.


End file.
